


Drawing a Line

by Kainosite



Category: Political RPF - UK 21st c.
Genre: Alternate Universe, BDSM, Caning, Coalition, Corporal Punishment, Discipline, Dom/sub, First Time, M/M, Strapverse, Tory CPverse, Workplace Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-20
Updated: 2011-10-20
Packaged: 2017-10-24 19:40:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 18,072
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/267126
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kainosite/pseuds/Kainosite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When the 1922 Committee threatens disciplinary action against Michael over his BSF cockup, David realizes that the only way to protect the authority and reputation of his government is to get there first.  But disciplining Michael is never straightforward... Warning for a moderately severe caning.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written in response to [this prompt](http://lolitics-meme.livejournal.com/8078.html?thread=15955854#t15955854) at the Lolitics meme. With a great debt of gratitude to the originators of Strapverse and Tory CPverse, to whom most of the world-building should be attributed, and to Mr. Gove, whose chronic incompetence makes all this possible.

David Cameron had only been Prime Minister of Great Britain and Northern Ireland for two months, but already he'd developed a healthy terror of Prime Minister's Questions. The ten minutes before walking into the Chamber, which his fevered brain typically spent thinking up forty things he might be asked that he hadn't been adequately briefed on, had until today been the low point of his Wednesdays. This was the first time his day actually got _worse_ after the end of his weekly ordeal.

He stared at the glum face of his Chief Whip and the inappropriately cheerful face of his PPS and tried to look grave and ministerial, and not like someone who wanted to bury his face in his hands and moan or go and bang his head against a wall. Both of these options felt more appealing at the moment than listening to his advisers relay the bad news.

"Look, you have a a problem," Patrick said.

David laughed. There was a note of hysteria in it that he didn't want to examine too closely. " _A_ problem?"

"Let me rephrase that." His Chief Whip gave him the quelling look that struck fear into the hearts of backbenchers everywhere. "You have a PR meltdown on your hands, which luckily for me is Andy Coulson's problem, not mine. You also have a problem within the Party. The 1922 Committee are going to want disciplinary action, and if you allow them to discipline a Cabinet minister it will seriously undermine the Government."

"But they can't carry the vote, surely. That was the whole point of opening up the Committee to frontbenchers," David reminded them.

"Everything's a secret ballot now," Desmond said. "So we can't count on the payroll vote. Most of them probably _will_ back the Government, but everyone is furious with Michael for being completely shit on the BSF lists. We can't rely on them."

"And even if we could that's only 78 votes. I think we can count on most of the 118 voting in favor, and of that soft 110 everyone who's pissed off at the Government because they didn't get the job they wanted or they don't like the Whips' Office or they feel you conceded too much to Clegg is going to try and get a kick in. I honestly don't think we can carry it, and we can't whip a secret ballot. Michael is in trouble. Now, I don't give a damn about that, he brought it on himself, but this is a power play. If they cane a Cabinet minister you're in trouble too," Patrick said.

"I know." David's political instincts latched on to the bit of Patrick's statement that didn't sound like it was his fault like wolves cutting a limping caribou out of the herd. "Wait, what was that about the Whips' Office?"

Patrick's political instincts had about twenty years of experience on David's. He didn't even blink.

"Just a little malcontent stirring. It's the 2010 intake, mostly; they're wet, spoiled brats and they don't understand the concept of party discipline. They think that just because some twat in Surrey ticked a box next to their name, we have to listen to them, like it was them people were voting for and not the Party. They'll learn. Two years on the backbenches and they'll be begging to lick your boots. Or they'll find themselves deselected come the next general; that works too. But at the moment we can't count on them."

David winced. "Christ, is it the 2010s now? I thought it was just the Cornerstone wankers."

"No, the Cornerstone wankers hate you because you haven't withdrawn from the EU, sealed the borders and imposed martial law yet. This lot hate you because they think you're too dictatorial," Desmond clarified helpfully, giving him a cheerful little smile. He always took an unseemly delight in listing David's enemies.

"Right. I'll... try to remember. With so many backbenchers it does get hard to keep track. So, this disciplinary action motion, how far along is it?"

"Julian Brazier tabled it at this afternoon's meeting. There's a special session tonight; we're voting then," Desmond said.

"Shit! Already?" God, for a pack of dinosaurs they moved fast when they wanted something. "That's pretty rich coming from people who threw a tantrum because I only gave them twenty-four hours to consider whether or not to open the '22 to frontbenchers."

Desmond grinned. "They want to be sure to have their go at Michael before you get a chance to sack him."

"I'm not sacking him!"

"Yet. At the rate this thing is escalating, it will probably come out by Monday that he's embezzled three million pounds and murdered the Queen."

"You are not helping," David said, glaring at him. "And I still don't understand how they can carry this vote! They barely managed to carry the vote against George, and frontbenchers weren't on the Committee then."

Patrick shrugged. "Michael irritates people. He irritates _me_. If it didn't undermine the Government and I didn't think they'd take things too far, I'd vote for it. A good hiding would do him a world of good."

"I'm sure he appreciates your support," David said. His phone rang, and he answered it with some relief.

 _”David Evennett is here to see you, sir. He says it's urgent. Shall I send him in?"_ his PA asked.

"Why not? This is the 'Why is Michael such a tit?' meeting, after all. Maybe he'll have some insight."

There a brief pause to give him time to decide whether or not this was sarcasm. David sighed.

"Send him in. The more the merrier."

Michael's PPS looked, if possible, more glum than Patrick. He was bordering on woebegone.

"Sent you to get the rescue party, has he?" David joked.

Evennett shook his head. "He sent me to tell you not to interfere."

They all stared at him.

" _What?_ "

"He wants to argue his case before the '22," Evennett said.

David finally surrendered to the urge to bury his face in his hands. "Why the hell does he think that will work?"

There was a pregnant silence in which everyone tactfully refrained from saying, 'Because Michael is an idiot.'

"I don't think he actually expects to get off," Evennett said finally. "But the theatre of it appeals to him. The great courtroom drama, you know, the lone voice of reason against a bloodthirsty mob, heroic martyrdom. Like Socrates or Sir Thomas More."

"They _died_ ," Desmond said.

"Exactly. David, he sent me to tell you to stay out of it, but I've come to do just the opposite. He's in real trouble; I'm begging you to help him." Evennett looked at David beseechingly, worry written all over his blunt face. He'd only been Michael's PPS for two months and he must have resented running errands for an MP so many years his junior, but the attachment was obvious. Michael had a way of worming his way into people's affections. He was like a child, winsome and witty and enthusiastic and utterly exasperating. It was impossible to spend any length of time with him and not grow fond of him.

From the anxiety wracking his voice, Evennett had proven as susceptible to Michael's charms as everyone else. "He doesn't know what he's up against. He's never seen a caning. I have. George was bleeding when they were done with him, and compared to Michael they _love_ George. And that was before the coalition, before you pissed them off by challenging their sovereignty, before they'd given up all hope of jobs in government. There's nothing to restrain them now. They're going to use him to get at you, and they'll tear him to pieces. You can't let this happen, sir."

David glanced at Desmond, who shrugged.

"It's only six strokes, but there's a lot of latitude in how hard they hit, and if they really want to get nasty they can swap the cane out for a heavier one. David's right, they could hurt him pretty badly."

"Patrick?"

"He's a bright kid, but he doesn't have the sense God gave geese. Forget about what he wants; he's a hazard to himself and he's certainly a hazard to the Government. If you're his friend you'll keep sharp objects away from him. Like scissors and his fucking tongue." He snorted. "If he makes a speech in there I can _guarantee_ we'll lose that vote, and then we are all up to our necks in cack. You've got some leeway with the backbenchers because we're in government, but you don't have this much leeway. We have to stop this somehow."

"But how? It's the 1922 Committee! I can't just override them. He's a sitting MP like anyone else; they're fully within their rights to censure him. And I can't afford to lose another confrontation with them, can I?"

No one would meet his eyes. He took that for a no.

"I could call in a bomb threat," Desmond suggested in what was probably an ill-advised attempt to lighten the mood.

"That's not funny. And _no_ ," he added, in case Desmond had been serious.

Desmond pouted, but brightened as another idea came to him. "You could preempt them! Discipline him yourself. If you do it first they won't be able to punish him again for the same crime."

"I've told you, I'm not sacking him!"

"I don't think Desmond meant _sack_ him," Patrick said slowly. "Now why didn't I think of that? That _is_ a good idea, David. It would solve the immediate problem and send a message to the backbenchers at the same time."

"They want a formal apology to the House," Evennett put in tentatively.

Patrick scowled. "I'll just bet they do. Bercow and Peter fucking Bone in alliance, what a world."

"I mean, Michael won't want to give it. I just asked him; he refuses absolutely. He says he'll send a letter to Bercow and that's all."

"He'll want to when David's done with him," Desmond said, grinning.

David gave him a quelling glare. His was never as effective as Patrick's, for some reason. "Yes, thank you, Desmond."

"He really ought to apologize to the House. And they know he doesn't want to, or it would already be on the Order Paper; if he makes an apology this evening it will prove that you rebuked him. If you drop by the meeting with him tonight and announce it, they'll have to back off. You know, I really think this will work, David. If you're willing to go through with it, it will sort out everything: the vote, the '22, _Michael_ ," Patrick said, pursing his lips thoughtfully.

"Why wouldn't I be willing to go through with it?" David asked indignantly. He wasn't exactly keen on it- nor should he be! What sort of leader _wanted_ to beat their subordinates?- but he resented the implication that he didn't have the bottom for it.

"Well, it doesn't quite fit in with the 'We love trees, yobbos and Europe' rebranding," Desmond said. "But I have faith in your inner Tory, Dear Leader."

" _Thanks_ ," David told him, rolling his eyes. One would think he'd picked the bloody Eiffel Tower for the new logo, the way people went on about it. There was nothing more English than an oak tree, and they lived for hundreds of years, which by David's reckoning should make them more conservative even than the Cornerstone Group. Whereas a torch evoked the idea of angry mobs, a Labour symbol if ever he'd seen one. But the Conservative Party did not cope well with change.

"You have a cane somewhere? You can borrow the Whips', if you need it," Patrick offered, giving him the same searching, nervous look his mother had given him when she'd first let him drive the car by himself.

David rolled his eyes again. "Yes, I have a cane. _And_ my lunch money! It's fine, gentlemen; I've got this."

"Allow me to thank you on Michael's behalf," Evennett said, looking vastly relieved.

"He's very welcome. I will always try to protect my ministers, even when they prove themselves incapable of compiling a simple list. Will you ask him to meet me in my study in half an hour?"

Evennett left. Desmond and Patrick exchanged a knowing smirk, and then Patrick asked,

"Do you need a tutorial?"

David did need a tutorial, but he wasn't going to admit as much to his smug advisers when they were playing the Torier-than-thou card for all it was worth. He'd bloody well _manage_.

"I do have things to get on with, you know," he told them coldly.

They exchanged another mocking look and left, sniggering to each other. Honestly, Michael wasn't the only member of David's Government with a mental age of about twelve. Maybe he should cane the lot of them.

David asked his PA to clear his diary for the rest of the afternoon and sat down with his internet browser to do some serious research. 'Caning' gave him Wikipedia and several articles about judicial caning in Malaysia and Singapore. 'Caning instructions' gave him a lot of websites about weaving seats for chairs and no useful information whatsoever. He'd clicked through three pages of worthless search results and learned in passing more than he'd ever wanted to know about chair manufacture before it occurred to him that he was an idiot.

He went back to the search bar and tried 'caning instructions BDSM'. This was much better. The first site was mostly broken links and porn stories in 1990s DayGlo font colors, but the second gave him proper content and useful suggestions for beginners. Avoid the thighs and tailbone for fear of pinching the skin against the bone or damaging a nerve cluster. Cane on bare skin to allow the caner to see the resulting marks and gauge the intensity of the blows. Strike with the final six or eight inches of the cane, but avoid hitting with the tip or allowing the cane to wrap around the body. There was even a diagram showing how close to stand and what the arc of motion should be. Oh, and have antiseptic on hand in case the cane cut the skin. David winced at that one, but he rang his PA and asked her to bring in the first aid kit.

And they recommended practice, lots of practice. The need was obvious, and David even had a cushion to use for a target, if he borrowed the one from the window seat in his office. The trouble was smuggling it through Number 10 to the little study near the Cabinet Office where he and George had discovered the strap, and where David had subsequently dumped the cane. He hadn't had a choice about that, really; there were no cupboards in the his real office, and he could hardly leave the cane lying around on one of the bookshelves. Besides, the other room had a certain degree of seclusion to recommend it. It was easy to see why Brown had chosen it for his private study, even setting aside the matter of the... implement... buried in the bottom drawer of the desk.

If it should ever become necessary to use the thin stick of rattan he'd inherited with the leadership of his party, David had wanted the event to take place somewhere far away from his real office, somewhere where he wouldn't be reminded of the incident every time he sat down at his desk, somewhere the crack of the cane wouldn't be overheard. The little study was perfect. David had dumped his neglected copies of Hansard- seldom referenced these days, poor things; the electronic version was so much quicker- on the bookshelves, stuffed some odds and ends and spare files from Norman Shaw South that he couldn't find room for in his new office into the desk, stashed the cane in the wall cupboard, and abandoned the room. He did all his work in his office or in the armchairs in the Thatcher Room. He hadn't even set foot in his study for more than a week, and his last visit was only to pick up a file.

He'd have to go there now, though, which meant taking a conspicuously teal window seat cushion down one flight of stairs and up another one. Ah, well. He was the Prime Minister. If anyone asked what he was doing, he would just stare at them haughtily until they went away. Armed with his cushion, the first aid kit and the collective wisdom of the online BDSM community, David set out to master the art of caning in under fifteen minutes.


	2. Chapter 2

David did get bemused stares from the policeman in the entrance hall, from Steve, who happened to walking down the corridor in the opposite direction, and from the press office intern whose name David had never managed to learn although he was reasonably confident it began with a 'K.' But no one dared to question him. He was able to cart his prize past the Spitfire painting, up the staircase and down the corridor to his study without having to explain himself.

Once the door was safely locked behind him, he dropped the first aid kit on the desk and set his target up on one of the leather chairs, where it promptly flopped over and fell onto the floor. His second effort to prop up the cushion met with no better success. By the time he finally got it to stand upright, he was starting to feel the bloody thing _deserved_ a thrashing. The cane, when he retrieved it, was oddly light in his hand, a long stick of polished wood a centimeter in diameter with a curved handle to hang it. He bent it experimentally, and it sprang back with a whippy hiss.

David had been beaten with a clothes brush in prep school. This looked ten times worse. He didn't envy Michael what was coming. He took a firm stance in front of the chair and a little to the left, tapped the middle of the cushion once to test his aim, and gave it a good solid whack. The cane landed with a thump and a puff of dust, and the cushion flopped over and slid off the chair again.

Insolent thing. It was a better proxy for Michael than he'd thought. After three tries he managed to set it up again, feeling quite cheerful despite the irritating war of attrition with gravity. His first attempt at caning had gone rather well, if he did say so himself. The cushion was too stiff to retain a crease where the cane struck it, but from what he'd seen it had landed pretty squarely in the middle, roughly where he'd been aiming, and the dangerous tip had remained well clear of the target. His next few attempts met with similar success. Maybe this wasn't as difficult as the internet made it sound. That was always the trouble with detailed instructions; they made simple things sound ridiculously intimidating.

By the fourth stroke he was so sick of setting up the cushion that he just held the damn thing in the air and swung the cane at it a few times, which may not have done much to improve his aim but certainly relieved his feelings. When he felt the cushion had been adequately punished, he moved on to the next stage of his experiment. The website had recommended that prospective caners find someone to give them a few whacks before they tried to dish it out so that they would know how it felt. Obviously that wasn't an option for David, not now, although he felt a vague regret that he'd never done anything to really piss off Michael Howard.

But he could test it on himself. He took off his jacket, unfastened his left cufflink and rolled up his sleeve. The skin on the underside of his arm was pretty tender; if he struck himself there he should have a good sense of what he was about to put Michael through. He stuck out his arm and brought the cane down on his bicep.

He'd meant to hit himself as hard as he could, but despite his best efforts he flinched and pulled the blow, slowing down as the cane approached his vulnerable skin. The cane was flexible enough that it didn't matter. Momentum carried the end forward, and it struck his arm with a loud snap. In books he'd always seen the sound described as a crack, but to David's ears it sounded more like the noise he'd expect a belt to make against skin, a whoosh and then a slapping sound. The sting followed half a second later, a sharp burning sensation like lemon juice pouring into a cut.

It wasn't as bad as he'd expected, but it definitely hurt, and the pink mark on his arm was puffing up into a welt. He raised the cane again, trying to make the blow full force this time, but again he pulled back at the last minute. He managed to strike a little harder, at least. This time the snapping sound had a sharper edge to it, and his arm hurt more. This was definitely going to get Michael's attention.

He was debating whether or not to give himself a third cut- on the one hand, this probably wasn't a valid test unless he hit himself full force; on the other hand, his arm hurt quite a lot now, and _he_ hadn't done anything that deserved a caning- when there came a knock at the door. David jumped and quickly shoved the cane behind his back like a child caught with stolen candy. Then he remembered that the door was locked. It was probably Michael anyway.

Well, he could stew for a few minutes while David got himself organized. At school they'd always made them wait until the next morning for their beating, and to David's recollection the anticipation had been one of the most unpleasant parts of the punishment.

"There's a chair by the door where you can wait," he said. "I'll be ready for you in a moment."

"Oh, very well," said the person on the other side of the door with bad grace. Definitely Michael, and in a stroppy mood, from the sound of it. There was a part of David that was going to enjoy this.

He was pretty sure he knew which part, too. Every since Howard had handed the cane over to him- no, before that, ever since that time when George had leaned over conspiratorially in a Shadow Cabinet meeting and whispered, half-ashamed and half-smug, that Howard had caned him for inattention- the cane had been lurking in the depths of David's mind and rising to the surface like a guilty whale whenever he found himself in need of a little erotic inspiration. Not the beating itself; he hadn't really thought that part through until today, but the ritual of it- the stern rebuke, the humbled penitent bending over and meekly accepting his punishment, and the handshake afterwards, offered with gratitude for the leader's firm guidance.

Of course, he'd swiftly realized that the fantasy was much, much more appealing if he edited out Howard and replaced him with himself, and soon that substitution was no longer a fantasy. Michael joined the Shadow Cabinet and joined George on the roll of penitents- inevitable, really, with his cocky attitude and his sharp tongue- and then had come the coalition and Nick, smug, combative Nick with his bright smile and his kind disposition and his unshakeable conviction that he was right about absolutely everything. Liberal Democrat or no, he'd gone straight into the wank bank with the others.

But as much time as David had spent imagining canings, somehow he'd never quite expected to find himself _giving_ one. And it was very different, in the harsh light of day. In his fantasies the _caning_ part of the caning just sort of happened, but now he had all these mechanics to worry about. It was like PMQs, he'd just have to find his stride and hope to get through it without making an ass of himself. He especially hoped that his cock didn't mistake reality for fantasy and decide to get excited about this. That would be disastrous on a number of levels.

And he hoped Michael would forgive him for what he was about to do. That had never been an issue in the fantasies either; the Michael in his head was a malleable doll who reacted as David wished him to react. He was always repentant for his imagined crime, contrite, his lower lip wobbling and his eyes glittering with tears, willing to take his punishment and eager for the forgiveness that followed. The real Michael was rarely so cooperative. But he'd understand, wouldn't he, once David had explained the situation with the 1922 Committee? He'd have to. It wasn't like David had decided to beat him on a whim.

He unlocked the door, picked up the cushion and stuffed it into the cupboard where he'd been keeping the cane, and set the cane down on the desk. The first aid kit he placed in the bottom drawer. He wanted to be intimidating, but leaving that out felt like overkill; hopefully he wouldn't need it, and he didn't want Michael to think he was planning to do him a serious injury. He was going to get a good thrashing, that was all, enough to teach him a lesson and keep him out of the grasp of the '22, but nothing that would do lasting damage. David set his clothes back in order and sat down behind his desk, trying to school his features into an expression of judicial severity.

"Enter."

There was a thump from outside as Michael stood up, and then the knob was turning and David was face to face with his errant Secretary of State, with two and a half feet of Malaysian rattan between them.

"I'm here for my bollocking, as requ-" began Michael, stepping boldly into the room, but then he chanced to glance down at David's desk and froze, his eyes wide. He flinched back from the cane as if it were a venomous snake. But when he looked up at David again it was not with fear but with irritable disdain.

"I assume this is set dressing."

"I think you know quite well it's not."

Michael's lip quirked in a mirthless smirk. "And here I thought you were opposed to corporal punishment, David."

"Of schoolchildren. I don't think it's entirely unreasonable to hold ministers of Her Majesty's Government to a more exacting standard. It's not my preferred recourse, needless to say."

"Isn't it?" Michael asked, raising his eyebrows. "You reached for it very quickly."

"You embarrassed my Government very quickly, but I’d never accuse you of doing so out of malice."

That hit home. Michael had the grace to look abashed, and dropped that line of attack.

"I _am_ sorry about the mix-up. It was Partnerships for Schools that drafted the list, of course, not my department, but given their record of colossal incompetence we should have checked it more thoroughly."

"I should think so. Their record aside, you're announced that they're surplus to requirements and you intend to sack them all. As a general guideline, people who know they are going to be sacked do not always feel inspired to do their best work for the person responsible for sacking them. If I had to speculate, my guess would be that they were too busy updating their résumés to put much effort into sparing you public embarrassment. So yes, you should have fucking checked."

Michael folded his arms. "I admit it, and I've apologized. I'll write to Bercow and the affected schools, what more do you want?"

One would think the cane would provide a clue.

"To start with, an full and unreserved apology to the House, tonight, for the errors in the lists and the absolute mess you made of your statement on Monday."

" _I_ didn't make a mess of it! It's not my fault if the others are so thick they are unable to apply a single simple rule. There was a systematic basis for determining which projects had gone ahead and which had been scrapped, it was applied with absolute consistency across the country, and I explained it very clearly. Any project that had reached financial close went ahead. Any project that had not done so was canceled pending consideration of individual cases. If Members were paying the least attention to what was going on with their local schools, they would be able to evaluate for themselves the status of every project in their constituencies. No one should have _needed_ that wretched list."

David snorted. "If it was so easy to evaluate, why couldn't you spot the errors?"

"Oh, for God's sake, David. I was handed the document and I assumed it was correct. It's nineteen pages long; it didn't occur to me to check it line by line. I am terribly sorry and it won't happen again. May I go now, please? I have a defense to prepare for the 1922 Committee." Michael folded his arms defiantly and gave David a haughty glare.

"The 1922 Committee. Right. That brings us to Item Two: the only statement you will be making to the 1922 Committee is an apology for your gross incompetence. That should save you some time; you can just swap a few words around in your apology to the House."

"I'm to meekly bend over and let them cane me," Michael said flatly. "I see. Have you considered the political implications?"

"Far more carefully that you have. Lock the door behind you, please."

Michael raised his eyebrows in sarcastic inquiry, but he obeyed. He turned back to David and folded his arms again.

"Very well, we're safe from intrusions by rampaging backbenchers. Now would you care to explain why having one of your Cabinet ministers grovel to the '22 is sound politics?"

"Because I intend to make it very clear that you are doing so by my command, and the only authority they have over you comes through me," David said.

"Well, _that's_ completely untrue.”

"It overstates the case somewhat, yes. But by the end of tonight it will _look_ true, and that's what counts in politics. I need to convince the reactionary wankers from the Cornerstone Group that I'm too strong to challenge and the rebellious idiots in the 2010 intake that their futures lie with the Government and not with backbench alliances. Our enemies within the party control more than a hundred seats between them. They have us by the balls, and if they ever figure that out this Government is in very deep trouble. So tonight we are going to go to that meeting and prove to them that I am firmly in control of both my ministers and my party."

"And we're going to achieve that by licking their boots when we're told? _That_ strikes me as an exceptionally unlikely strategy. Far better to challenge them and show that we have some spine than to meekly give in to their demands without a fight. They're bullies. If we don't stand up to them now, they’ll just keep pushing, demanding more and more concessions form us. Appeasement never works, David. If you drag me before them to apologize it will only serve to demonstrate that they can coerce you as well as me. We need to take a stand."

"It's only appeasement if I don't believe you should apologize.”

"Oh, right, so you think I _should_ grovel on my belly before a bunch of grubby little backbenchers! And Bercow and the Opposition too, I suppose! I'm so glad I can count on your _support_ , Prime Minister," he spat, really incensed now.

David wasn’t terribly pleased himself. "We wouldn't be in this mess if you had done your fucking job. And if you think we can afford to challenge the '22 again and _lose_ , which is exactly what will happen tonight if the matter comes to a vote, then you obviously don’t comprehend our situation. I can’t negotiate with the Lib Dems unless I can control our backbenchers. If our reactionaries vote down all the moderate bills, the Lib Dems will vote down the cuts, and this coalition will collapse. I am not going to risk the entire Government because you want to play martyr. We simply cannot afford to let them think they can get away with rebellion. Now take your trousers down and bend over my desk."

Michael looked as if he wasn't sure he'd heard this properly. "I beg your pardon."

"You're absolutely right, the 1922 Committee can't be seen to cane a Cabinet minister. So I'm going to preempt them by disciplining you myself. Trousers down, please."

"You cannot be serious!"

"Never more so."

"You have _no right_. With all due respect, Prime Minister," said Michael, none of this respect detectable in his tone, "that censure motion is a matter for 1922 Committee, and any apology I may owe the House is a matter for the Speaker. This is Party business and Commons business. None of it is Government business. You have no authority to command any statements from me whatsoever."

David sighed and settled back in his chair, giving Michael a dark look over his folded hands. "You do remember that I am the leader of your party, I hope."

"But you're not the Chairman of the '22."

"Thank God."

Michael had to crack a smile at that, but he wasn't giving any ground. "I won't apologize. It was a minor error. It's being blown entirely out of proportion, and abject self-flagellation will only encourage our enemies to spew forth still greater fountains of synthetic outrage. If we want this story to go away we need to stop talking about it, not add tinder to the fire."

"While we're on the subject of PR, Andy has a few choice words for you. He'd have more if he’d heard that, because you're absolutely wrong about how to defuse the story. As long as you keep insisting you weren't at fault, it's just going to continue building. An apology will kill it."

"I'm _not_ wrong,” Michael insisted. “You want me to get the bullies to leave me alone by bursting into tears. I've tested that method. Trust me when I tell you it won’t work."

"I must say I'm intrigued by your ability to recast yourself as the victim of this little drama," said David.

"You want to hit me with a stick, David! How else would you describe me?"

"I don't _want_ to hit you, I have no option but to hit you. It's not at all the same thing. And I am trying to protect you. The ‘22 will skin you alive."

Michael lifted his chin stubbornly. "It's my skin. Don't I have the right to decide what happens to it?"

"Well... honestly, no. Your skin belongs to my Government, and if the 1922 Committee cuts slices out of it, it undermines my authority. Besides, even if we accept your absurd claim that the '22 and the House exist in some sort of magical vacuum and the conduct of my ministers before them is none of my concern, the list and your shambolic statement on Monday are certainly Governmental business. I have _every_ right to cane you for the errors," David said severely.

Michael wilted a little under David’s glare, his scowl transforming into a sullen pout. But although his anger was subsiding into wounded indignation, he did not move any closer to the desk.

"David, it is one bloody list and a slightly disorganized statement. I didn’t embezzle a million pounds or... or rape someone, or set a kitten on fire, or cross the floor. Can we please try to retain some sense of perspective here?"

"It's a list about cutting education funding, which was bound to be volatile anyway, that you then proceeded to fucking _detonate_ because you couldn't be bothered to check it over before you put it into the public domain. Michael, you didn't know your brief! Do you really expect me to let you off scot free?"

"I didn't expect you to physically assault me! You're one of my best friends!" Michael said plaintively.

"I'm also your boss. How would the sainted Tony Blair have handled this, hm? A close friend bringing his Government into disrepute?" David raised his brows and let Michael draw the obvious analogy.

His eyes widened in dismay. "I- that's completely different! This isn't a scandal!"

"It bloody well _is_ a scandal. Christ, this is worse! Peter Mandelson is a crook, but at least no one thinks he's _incompetent_. _You_ look like you're not fit to be in charge of a nursery school, much less the Department for Education."

"It was an error in _one_ document-"

"It was one error-riddled list that you submitted to the House! Not only have you demonstrated that you're not on top of your brief, you've also given the country the impression that the entire Government is not taking the cuts seriously, because my ministers apparently cannot be arsed to figure out what it is they're cutting,” David snapped.

This was the core of the problem, and the bit that had been worrying David all afternoon. If it hadn’t been for the involvement of the ‘22 the rest would have been a trivial annoyance, just another one of the tiresome little storms that blew through the Westminster teacup on an almost weekly basis. But the image Michael’s carelessness created, of a disconnected Government blithely taking a chainsaw to public spending and fiddling while the country burned, was genuinely damaging.

Groveling to the House would ameliorate that image a little. David would have forced Michael to make a formal apology even if the ‘22 hadn’t decided to stick their noses in. He would have called him in for a severe dressing down, too. Just not a literal one.

“Of course I’m taking the cuts seriously!” Michael protested. “It was an accident, an honest mistake, and the real error wasn’t even mine. I’m glad you’re not asking for my resignation- although you’d look a bit silly, sacking me after only two months; if you really want the Government to seem incompetent that’s the way to go about it- but that doesn’t make _this_ response proportionate. I don’t think I deserve to be caned!”

“It’s not your decision. Get your trousers off and bend over my desk, please. I don’t want to ask you again.”

“I’ve told you, I want to argue my case before the ‘22. It _is_ my decision; this is between me and the Party, and I have the right to choose whether or not to defend myself! I’d rather be beaten than surrender to them. You have no business interfering.”

David's frustration crystallized into a sudden clarity of purpose. He wasn't going to talk Michael around, because Michael would keep him talking in circles forever. He could have conceded graciously, but he clearly had no intention of doing so. Instead he intended to be a pain in the arse, and he was making a bloody good job of it. This argument wasn't going to be won with words, it was going to be won with actions, and the time had for David come to act. He stood up and walked around the desk.

Michael was startled enough to stop talking, which David took as confirmation that he'd hit on the right strategy.

"That's enough. This isn't a debate; I've told you what's happening and now you're going to do as you're told. Take your trousers down and get across my desk."

"But David-"

"That. Is. Enough."

David walked over to him. Scarcely believing his nerve, he pushed Michael's tie aside, unbuckled his belt and unbuttoned his trousers. Michael didn't stop him. He just stared down at David's hands in shock, his own held out to the side as if for balance. Since he wasn't getting any resistance, David unzipped Michael’s fly, took hold of the waistband, and pushed his trousers down to his knees. It was weirdly similar to undressing the children, the stiff body standing frozen and letting itself be acted upon. Nothing like undressing a lover. He thought perhaps he might get through this without embarrassing himself after all.

"Pants too. Am I doing them, or will you?"

For the first time in David's memory, Michael was speechless, but he made no move to assist in the disrobing operation. With a mental shrug, David pulled his briefs down too, carefully not looking at what was revealed. He tugged Michael's jacket from his stiff shoulders. Michael finally cooperated, at least enough to allow David to pull the arms free, and David pulled it off him, folded it over his arm, and gestured to his desk.

Michael just stood there, staring at him blankly. David sighed, placed a firm hand on the back of Michael's neck- another weird parenting moment; one simply didn't touch adults like that- and guided him over to the desk. His captive moved reluctantly, stumbling a little over his trousers, but he offered no argument and no serious resistance, and a moment later David had him bent over the desktop. He set the jacket down on the edge of the desk and took up the cane.

"Stay there or you'll regret it," he said. Michael's shirttail was in his way, so David folded it up onto his back. His friend shivered at the exposure and finally found his voice.

"David, this is ridiculous," he said, fear accelerating his usual rapid patter to the point where it was barely intelligible. "You can't seriously be thinking of beating me. It's one thing for the dinosaurs on the 1922 Committee to cane poor George, but you're my _friend_ , for God's sake. Will you please put that thing down so we can talk this over like adults?"

"Adults take responsibility for their actions, Michael. I had this whole speech prepared about how sorry I was to do this to you, but you know what? I'm not sorry. I'm actually _grateful_ to the fucking 1922 Committee, because I wouldn't have had the guts to do this without them pushing me and I think this is actually the best thing for this Government, for your department, for young people across Britain, and for you- yes, for you," he added, when Michael looked up at him incredulously.

"You're my friend and I love you, but you absolutely fucking deserve this and you'll be a better minister for it. Howard always said I should have thrashed you for that Hizb ut-Tahrir cock-up back in 2009, and he was right. You're sloppy, you don't take your duties seriously, and it's partly my fault because I've let you get away with it, but that ends today. You need a good sharp shock, frankly, and that's what you're about to get. Do you consent to this punishment?"

Michael huffed out an irritable sigh and settled onto his elbows. "My leader, right or wrong. Of course I consent, but I think you're being an absolute-"

The world would never find out what David was being, and that was probably for the best. It was certainly better for Michael. If David taught him nothing else today, at least he would learn not to insult a man standing behind him with a cane. The stroke drew a sharp indrawn breath from him and sent him up on his tiptoes.

David surveyed his handiwork critically. The cane had left a whitish dent in Michael's skin, which darkened into a pair of mauve ridges as he watched. With no experience to draw on it was hard to know whether he was using the right amount of force, but the blow hadn't drawn blood and Michael certainly seemed to have felt it. Maybe the next could be slightly harder? He was doing well on placement at least; the weal was halfway up Michael's bottom and almost parallel to the ground.

One more, he thought, just to make the point the debate was finished, and then he would make sure they were both on the same page. He aimed an inch above the first welt and swing again, a little more forcefully this time. The stroke went a bit high, but he'd landed a perfect parallel to the first welt, a neat mauve line across the curve of Michael's arse. Michael gasped and flinched, his buttocks clenching tightly. The first welt was darkening to red now.

"Have I convinced you I'm serious yet?" David asked grimly.

"I was never questioning your resolve, I only-" Michael broke off and glanced nervously over his shoulder. Whatever he saw in David's face convinced him that this was not a good time for a ten minute apologia. His head drooped, the knob of his vertebrae showing starkly above his collar. "Yes, David."

"Are we finished arguing?"

A very small voice, addressed to David's blotter. "Yes, David."

"Are you clear on why I'm punishing you?" David asked. It made him feel uncomfortably like Supernanny, but he was worried the actual complaint had been lost in the argument.

"Because the BSF lists were wrong."

"Because you failed to _check_ the BSF lists. I realize the initial mistake wasn't yours, but you should have read them over before you put them in the public domain. And because of the disastrous delivery of your statement- you should have distributed an accurate list prior to making it. I don't give a damn if you run long and fuck up Bercow's schedule, but I don't want to get any more irate emails from the 1922 Committee complaining that my ministers are incompetent to communicate basic information to the House."

"They can use email?" Michael joked weakly. He glanced back over his shoulder again and winced at David's expression. "Sorry. I promise I'm taking this seriously."

"You'd better be. I want you on my team, so you're not going to be lucky enough to escape with a relegation. I simply won't tolerate this level of incompetence from you. One way or another you are going to find some form, and if that means I have to put you over this desk every day for the next five years, then that's what we'll do."

"That won't be necessary," Michael said quickly. "This is quite painful; I'm sure it will have a salutary effect. May I ask a question?"

"Go on."

"Might I know how many strokes I'm due to receive? I apologize if the question is impertinent, I just- it would be comforting to know how close I am to the end."

"You know, I haven't quite decided. Let's see if you know your brief _now_. How many schools were erroneously categorized?"

"Twenty-three."

" _Christ_." He hadn't realized it was that bad.

Michael swallowed audibly. "David? I- I'm not trying to get out of this; I know I have it coming, but twenty-three strokes is... I'm not sure I can take so many. If that's what you think I deserve then of course I'll try, but I'm worried things may get a little... undignified. Forgive me, that sounds like I'm questioning your judgment, and I'm not, I swear I'm not. I'm just afraid that I'll beg for mercy or you'll have to hold me down, and I- I don't- please don't think too badly of me if I prove myself a dreadful coward?"

Well, that was certainly a dramatic about-face. He'd spent fifteen minutes doing nothing _but_ questioning David's judgment, and if he'd worried David might think him a coward then, he'd hidden his concern extraordinarily well. If this was the respect David bought himself with just two strokes of the cane, Michael would be _unrecognizable_ by the time he was done. He looked at the thin stick of rattan in something like awe.

Still, twenty-three did sound excessive. There was probably a reason the standard number was six. He let Michael squirm in miserable anticipation for a moment, then asked, "How many constituencies affected?"

"Nine," Michael answered, his spine sagging with relief.

"Sound reasonable?"

"Very reasonable. Thank you," he said with fervent gratitude, and after a moment's hesitation, added, "sir."

Between his shock and the surge of blood to his groin, David almost dropped the cane. Where the hell had _that_ come from? Michael was the most unfailingly well-mannered person David had ever met, but he was also the most unfailingly insolent, standing right on the edge of civility and doing everything in his power to goad his opponents into crossing the line. No one got extra concessions from him. He called men of their fathers' generation 'sir,' but David had never expected to hear it in reference to himself; the youngest person he'd ever heard Michael 'sir' was Tony Blair, and he'd assumed that was a special case. It wasn't connected to the premiership, at any rate; since the election Michael had become, if anything, _less_ respectful. David suspected the bonds of friendship were being tested by Michael's innate compulsion to challenge authority.

And why the hell did that one little syllable turn him on so much? David liked being in charge- one didn't become Prime Minister without a certain propensity for leadership- but walking into Number 10 hadn't given him a hard-on, for fuck's sake. Sure, he'd fantasized about this situation more than a few times over the years, but that was just daydreaming. The reality was something else entirely. Michael wasn't submitting for David's pleasure, he was doing it because he was hurt and scared and David had forced him to take the punishment against his will. David had come to terms with that; putting the fear of God into Michael was the whole point of the exercise, it was for his own good, and it was part of David's job. But he shouldn't bloody well be getting off on it!

Getting a sexual thrill from this felt dirty, demeaning to Michael, in a way all his fantasies had not. It felt like he really did think of him as nothing more than wank fodder. Nothing could be further from the truth. Michael was a dear friend, a highly intelligent man, a thoughtful policy maker, an able politician. David respected him, of course he did, it was just that seeing him splayed across his desk, his bare bum thrust in the air with the welts trisecting it in parallel stripes of red- he abruptly cut off that line of thought, which was only exacerbating his problem. Hugely relieved that Michael was facing forward once more and could see neither his blush nor the growing tent in his trousers, David raised the cane and lined up the next stroke.

He was so keyed up that the snap of impact startled him and he jumped almost as badly as Michael, whose whole body seemed to flinch away with a rippling tensing of muscle. He'd aimed the blow just below the first and tried to strike with the same strength he'd put into the second, but he could see from the darkening welt that he'd missed his target slightly. It wasn't quite parallel to the first two, but it wasn't so badly crooked that it intersected, so David counted it as a win. From Michael's muted whimper, he was less enthusiastic about it. One down, eight to go.

"Shall I count, sir?" Michael asked quietly, and again the word send a jolt to David's cock. God, imagine hearing it after every stroke. Just the thought of Michael dutifully giving the tally in that meek voice was making David a little light-headed. He'd be so hard by the end of the punishment that he'd barely be able to move. But he wasn't so overcome by lust that he lost all his political instincts. Michael wasn't proposing this for David's benefit, he was proposing it because words had always been his allies, his weapons and his comfort and his refuge, and he wanted their protection now. As long as he could speak he had a distraction; silence left him to face his pain alone.

Nice try, but he wasn't getting off that easy. And David was going to get through this without coming in his trousers.

"No need. Just concentrate on keeping quiet so we don't get some civil servant popping their head round the door to see if I'm murdering you."

"I locked it," Michael reminded him. No attitude, no aspersions about David's intelligence or snide remarks about early-onset Alzheimer's. God, that was bizarre.

"Popping their head round the door _metaphorically_. I just don't want to have to explain this."

"I expect they already know. Lady Thatcher must have done it."

And Gordon Brown must have done it too, David thought, suddenly remembering the strap in his drawer. This image was a comforting mood killer.

David swung again, aiming above the second welt, and landed a neat parallel line. No whimper this time, just a flinch and a another sharp gasp. They seemed to hurt more the further down they went. Bearing this in mind he gave Michael enough time to unclench his muscles and then swung again, aiming for the crease where his buttocks met his thigh. This blow wrung an outright cry of pain from him, and his elbows buckled, sending him down onto the desk with a thump.

Somehow this was as arousing as 'sir' had been. Oh dear. Now he was actually getting off on _hurting_ him. Poor Michael. David winced and thought desperately of Gordon Brown.

Unfortunately he had to examine Michael's arse again to figure out where to put the next stroke. He was running out of room. There just wasn't very much _meat_ on Michael. Except for the growing paunch he was all bone and spare, wiry muscle; he simply didn't have much bum to hit. The highest welt was nearly at his coccyx, David didn't dare go any higher, and the last stroke was as far down as David could go without hitting his thighs. There was supposed to be room for at least six strokes, wasn't there, before one had to get into 'barring the gate' or whatever they called it? There might be a spot between the first and second welts, if he aimed very carefully.

He swung, and got another whimper, which he hoped meant he'd got it right and managed to avoid overlapping the other two- that would probably have merited a yelp. The area was so red that it was a little hard to make out the new welt, but he thought he'd judged it right. Thank goodness for all his cricket experience; it had been better preparation for high office than even his old games masters could have dreamed. When they said the battle of Waterloo was won on the playing fields of Eton, David had never guessed they meant it quite so literally.

Yes, he could see he'd aimed true: the weal was dark enough to make out now, and it formed a neat, discrete line between its two predecessors, marking only virgin flesh. But now Michael really was in trouble. David had five more strokes to place and he was entirely out of bum. He would never be able to squeeze all these in between the current lot; some would have to overlap, and it was going to hurt like hell.

What to do? Diagonals, or should he just attempt more parallel strokes and hope for the best? Diagonals seemed more merciful; they would guarantee the cut didn't overlap a pre-existing welt for its entire length, and David didn't trust his aim well enough to ensure that wouldn't happen with the parallels. But there wasn't room for five of them; two was all he could fit, and then he would have to go back to parallels and pray that his aim was absolutely perfect.

David found he was pretty good at diagonals. The first one made a crisp line across the top five welts, coming in at a clean thirty degree angle. Where it cut across a previous welt, the intersection darkened to a painful looking burgundy, but it didn't break the skin. Michael didn't seem to appreciate the aesthetic. He howled when the cane cracked down, and afterwards his breath came in ragged gasps.

"I'm sorry, sir," he said, when David had given him a few seconds to recover. "I'm trying to be quiet, but that last stroke took my by surprise. It won't happen again, I promise."

His voice was rough with pain and there was a distinct Doric lilt to it, along with a frightened, appeasing note that David hadn't heard before. He was really suffering now. David wished he could tell him it was okay to cry out, but frankly it wasn't. They were in a busy building in the middle of a working day, and however inured the civil servants might be to strange cries coming from the leader's study, it really would be best if they were not overheard. This office was comparatively isolated, positioned as it was between a filing room and an outer wall, but Number 10 was still packed with people like a sardine tin. Screams wouldn't go unnoticed.

"You're doing very well," he said instead. "Just a few more, now."

He swung again and barred the gate in the other direction. Michael writhed in anguish, but true to his word, nothing escaped his lips but a faint, bitten-back whine. Three strokes to go, and he was back to parallels. But where to put them? The bottom weal, the one along the crease of Michael's thighs, had managed to escape the intersection of the diagonals, so if he missed his aim and hit it at least he'd only strike that patch of skin twice. He took aim just above the line of the previous mark and swung.

To his shame and Michael's great misfortune, he misjudged. The cane hit the welt full on, and Michael made an awful noise, a sort of long, high-pitched moan that trailed off into sobs. His legs trembled as the welt darkened to a deeper red, and David winced, feeling like a complete shit. Even his erection wilted a little in sympathy. Michael clearly needed some time to recover, so David held off on the next stroke and let him snivel for a while.

In retrospect this might not have been quite the mercy he'd intended, because Michael took it to mean the punishment was over and pushed himself shakily upright, scrubbing at his damp cheeks with his palm. They were counting differently- Michael must have included the first two strokes in the nine and thought he was done. It was David's fault, really, for failing to make things clear. He almost didn't have the heart to insist on the full punishment; Michael was in tears, he'd had a pretty sound thrashing already, and that last stroke had obviously been brutal.

But on some level this was a test of both of them, David's resolve and ability to follow through, and Michael's obedience even when he didn't like his orders. David had promised nine, and Michael should get all nine. Besides, this was _Michael_ he was dealing with. David couldn't be sure, not _sure_ , that they were actually on a different tally and that this wasn't a deliberate ploy to be let off the last two strokes or to convince David to let him count next time, and that kind of manipulation David absolutely could not tolerate.

"Michael? That's only seven," he said, gently but with steel as well as compassion in his voice.

Michael whirled around to stare at him in horror, his eyes comically wide, but after a moment the dismay on his face was replaced by an expression David couldn't quite identify, apprehension but also a sort of quiet acceptance. He bit his lip, but he nodded, and without a word bent back over the desk.

David felt oddly touched. He hadn't expected an argument; Michael had been meek as a kitten since he'd first felt the cane, but there had been more than just fearful submission in that look. Trust, that was it. That if David said the count was seven then that was the rightful count, that David's judgment was fair, that Michael would get the punishment he deserved and nothing more. It was a surreal vote of confidence in David's leadership, and it warmed his heart as much as any of Michael's more effusive declarations of loyalty.

For Michael's sake he meant to get the last two strokes over with quickly, but he was also conscious that there was no point in giving them if he didn't make them count. He laid the first across the middle of Michael's bottom just below the first welt, and he swung again immediately afterwards and put the second where he'd meant to put the seventh, just above the darkening bruise along the crease of Michael's thighs. Michael was too shocked by the double blow even to cry out- he just choked and slumped against the desk, sobbing wretchedly.

Now that the punishment was finished, David found himself at a bit of a loss. He considered sitting down again, staring into space and politely pretending Michael wasn't crying until he could compose himself and offer the requisite thank you and handshake. But fuck it, this wasn't 1950 and his friend was in tears. He set down the cane and drew the shaking minister up into a tight hug. Michael stumbled a little over his trousers but let himself be drawn, leaning against David and resting his head on his shoulder.

"Hey. Shh, shh, shh, shh. It's okay, it's all over," David murmured into his ear, rubbing gentle circles between his shoulders. Michael wept dismally, but his trembling subsided a little, and he reached up to hug David back. He clasped hot, sticky hands behind David's neck and clung to him. David took his weight and tried to shuffle their legs around so that Michael wouldn't get the lump of his erection poking him in the thigh; that was all he needed now, poor man, although he couldn't help noticing that Michael's own prick was half hard.

Somehow that wasn't entirely surprising. Michael had always enjoyed fighting with Ed Balls just a little too much. Still, however much of a thrill he'd got out of his punishment, he seemed genuinely chastened. And he certainly didn't need to know his friend and Prime Minister had found the caning every bit as arousing as he had. It was one thing to get off on your own pain, quite another to get off on a friend's pain uninvited when you were supposed to be dispassionately dealing out justice. Thank God Michael seemed too out of it to notice.

"I'm sorry about the list," he mumbled into David's shoulder once he'd managed to get his tears under control, still sounding a bit Scottish. "I know I let you down, and I really am terribly sorry. Have I caused a massive amount of trouble?"

"Less, now that I've caned you. I'm sure there will be a bit of a media circus, but we'll get through it. We'll report to the ‘22 tonight and explain that you've already been disciplined; that should wipe the slate clean with the party. And to prove it you're going to issue that apology to the House this evening, and repeat it to the ‘22."

Michael pulled back to stare at him in dismay. "I’ll apologize to the 1922 Committee if you think it best, but do I really have to apologize to the House? Bercow will- And Ed Balls, he'll never shut up about it! They won't just accept an apology, they'll make me _crawl_. I'll never live it down. Oh David, do I have to?"

With his damp cheeks, his huge, tear-filled eyes, and his childish pout, Michael looked quite effectively imploring. David was having none of it.

"Yes."

Michael opened his mouth, and for a second David thought he was about to argue, but instead he closed it and bowed his head. "Okay."

David gave his shoulders a little squeeze. "You mishandled this badly; they deserve an apology. You'll get through it. And it should stop them from banging on about this for the rest of the summer. As long as you defend your actions they can claim to be holding you to account, but once you've admitted you were wrong they'll look like pricks if they keep badgering you. I'm sure Balls will keep dredging it up, but at least you won't have every damn backbencher swarming over you like cockroaches."

"Yes, sir," Michael said humbly.

"And this won't happen again, will it? From now on you'll see to it that you are properly briefed before you make a statement to the House, and that any information you plan to disseminate is released accurately and in an intelligent and timely manner."

"I will, sir. You have my word."

David gave him another squeeze and let him go. Michael was still clinging to his neck, and David was about to suggest that he disentangle himself when Michael looked up at him again, his eyes brilliant with tears and so, so dark now, just a narrow rim of that odd olive green left around the wide pupils to betray their normal color. Their eyes met for a long moment, and then he leaned forward and kissed David full on the lips.


	3. Chapter 3

David was so shocked that he opened his mouth, so it was a better kiss than it might have been for having only one participant. Michael was insistent, his tongue pressing in against David's teeth. When he drew back his lips gleamed wetly and they were both a little short of breath.

"Fuck me, David, please," he said, his hands still clasped behind David's neck.

David stared at his Education Secretary in stupefied amazement. He'd been prepared for Michael to stop speaking to him in the aftermath of his punishment- well, not to stop _speaking_ to him, Michael probably couldn't stop speaking to someone if he tried, but for bitter fury. He knew they'd get past it, but he'd expected a distinct cooling in their friendship for a week or two. Not... not _this_.

"Won't it hurt?" he asked weakly, too stunned to raise any of the more pressing objections rattling around in his head.

Michael gave him a rather shaky version of his usual smirk. "Endorphins."

"But you could get that just wanking yourself off. This is-"

"Penance," Michael said breathlessly, and leaned up to assault David's lips again. "It's your prerogative, Prime Minister. Please, take it. I know you want to," he added, unwrapping a hand from David's neck to cup the shameful bulge in his trousers.

Oh God, he _had_ noticed. David closed his eyes, too mortified to look his friend in the face. "I'm so sorry, Michael, I can't even begin to tell you. I didn't mean to get off on it, I swear. I don't know why I did. I promise I didn't hit you any harder or-"

Michael cut him off with another kiss.

"I expect you got off on it because power is an aphrodisiac and I'm half naked."

He didn't sound hurt, or offended, or horribly betrayed by the unmistakable evidence that David had enjoyed hurting him. David cautiously opened his eyes again, and found Michael looking up at him warmly, with the same glow of dreamy approval that came into his eyes when he talked about the Swedish education system. It was a good look on him. One would never describe him as handsome, but with the right expression- an expression that didn't wrinkle up his forehead, for preference- he was almost pretty, those huge eyes, and full lips like a girl's, now reddened from kissing.

This was not a good idea. Intellectually David understood that. But it was like the beating had transmuted Michael's grating cockiness into something deeper, a tranquil _certainty_ , and David couldn't stand against it, not when every pulse of blood to his groin was hammering out a resounding affirmation. And damn it, the next week was going to be hell thanks to Michael's ineptitude; maybe he _was_ entitled to a certain amount of compensation. He would never have asked for it, but Michael was offering, and there was something about this that just felt _right_ , although that might have been David's cock talking. Still, it got to cast its vote like any other body part, right? And the Member for Surrey Heath was polling very, _very_ well. Michael gave it a gentle squeeze through the fabric of his trousers, and David huffed out a shaky breath and nodded, feeling a little faint.

"There's hand cream in my drawer, we could... Go get it," he ordered, trying to wrestle back some control of the situation. Michael released David's neck and backed away, toeing off his shoes. He stepped out of his pants and trousers and padded around the desk in his stocking feet to look for the hand cream.

David sucked in a deep breath. The room felt cooler without Michael's body pressed against his, and his head was clearing a little. He tugged his rumpled jacket straight, flattened his tie and tried to get a grip.

"I haven't got a condom. Are we talking penetration, here, or..?"

"I did say 'fuck me,' David; that is traditionally the act the phrase describes," Michael said, though without the acerbity that would usually have accompanied such a clarification. He found the hand cream and held the tube up triumphantly. "Not to worry, I'm conveniently unlikely to get pregnant. And I don't have any _diseases_ , if that's the source of your concern. I assume that you don't."

"No. Okay. I guess we're... doing this, then."

Michael grinned and came back around the desk. He started playing with David's tie and looked up at him coyly. "Are you always this articulate before sex? Poor Sam."

"Can we not talk about my wife when I'm about to cheat on her? Christ, and you were complaining about my foreplay."

"It's not really cheating, though, is it? It's not an affair. Just.. ministerial prerogative," Michael said, still giving him that coy smile.

"Try telling that to Sam. And by that I mean _don't_ try telling it to Sam, or she'll cut both our cocks off." Clearly this conversation needed to end, and quickly. David seized Michael firmly by the chin and kissed him. Michael had been pushy before, but now it took just a moment's struggle of thrusting tongues before he yielded, melting against David and letting him explore the inside of his mouth. He wrapped his hands behind David's neck again, the plastic cap of the the hand cream digging uncomfortably into David's skin.

" _God_ ," said David, panting, when he finally pulled back so they could breathe. Perhaps Michael was right to criticize his pillow talk.

Michael grinned up at him. Christ, a forty-two year old man really shouldn't be able to look so pretty. _Michael_ shouldn't be able to look so pretty. He looked like a fucking cartoon character half the time, for God's sake. The caning had obviously short-circuited something in David's brain, but he couldn't bring himself to care. The small portion of his mind still capable of performing higher cognitive functions was completely occupied by the logistics of how to get his cock inside Michael without hurting him.

Well, without hurting him _much_.

"How are we doing this? If I bend you over the desk I'll be slamming right into your welts, and if you sit on top you'll be resting your full weight on them. Either way it's going to be pretty rough on you."

"I'm not entirely eager to go over your desk again right now, to be honest. Traumatic memories and so forth. But this office has four perfectly good walls," Michael suggested, smirking.

David swallowed. "That... that could work."

"You're a bit overdressed," Michael said, releasing his neck and giving his cock another squeeze.

"You think the jacket's a little too much?" he asked.

Michael rolled his eyes and started trying to divest him of it one-handed, with a notable lack of success. David laughed and shrugged it off, dropping it onto the desk on top of Michael's. He picked up Michael's trousers, smoothed them, and added them to the growing pile of clothing on the desk; Michael had to go before the House tonight, and the last thing they needed was malicious gossip about the cause of his wrinkled suit.

He thought about taking off his own trousers, but he'd have to untie his shoes first, and it just seemed like too much of a delay. He kissed Michael again and then pushed him backward until his back thumped against the wall by the door, which David checked in passing. It was still locked.

"Eager," Michael murmured approvingly. He'd probably keep up a full running commentary on David's technique, if David let him. To show he wasn't going to stand for that sort of thing, David claimed another kiss. Michael moaned wetly and let David plunder his mouth, and it occurred to David that as negative reinforcement, this probably left something to be desired. So he caught Michael's lower lip between his teeth as he pulled away.

Michael's eyes widened at the sharp tug, but when David released him he grinned up at him and reached for his belt buckle. He was much better at managing this one-handed than he had been at getting David's jacket off, and he had David free of his trousers in no time.

He reached into David's boxers, and David closed his eyes in sheer, blessed relief as Michael's hand closed over his cock. That was what he'd been needing, that pressure, _oh God_...

And there was better to come, but only if he stopped Michael from jerking him off here and now. With a supreme effort of will, he opened his eyes again and held out a hand for the hand cream.

"Give me that and turn around," he ordered curtly, and Michael gave his cock a final squeeze and handed over the tube.

"Whatever you say, Prime Minister," he said, still grinning, and turned to lean against the wall. David ran a hand lightly over his striped bottom and Michael shivered, whimpering a little as David's hand crossed the diagonals. His skin was fever hot and David could feel the welts, seven puffy ridges of skin connected by the diagonals. The darker ones had slight indentations in the middle, and the weal at the bottom where Michael's buttocks met his thighs, the combined product of three separate blows, was almost an inch wide and a painful mulberry color. David hadn't broken the skin, but he'd come damned close there. When he touched that one Michael gave a soft cry and pulled away from his hand.

David flipped the cap on the hand cream and squeezed a dollop onto his fingers, filling the air for a moment with the sharp scent of the lotion. He capped the tube again and slipped it in his trouser pocket, and used his left hand to part Michael's bruised cheeks, his fingers digging into the welts. He was as gentle as he could be, but there was no helping it, no patch of unmarked skin he could grip instead. Michael whined in discomfort and squirmed, trying to shake off his hand.

He eased the lubed forefinger of his other hand into Michael's arse and let go, transferring his grip to the back of Michael's neck to hold him still.

"Shh. You knew this was going to hurt when you suggested it," he reminded him, working the finger into his body.

"Maybe not quite this much," Michael admitted, but he quieted under David's hand, letting him add in a second finger. He tensed a little as David scissored them, but offered no further protest.

"How long have you been thinking about this?" David asked as he stretched him, offering a distraction to take Michael's mind off the pain. He crooked his fingers forward to tap Michael's prostate and his friend moaned, pushing back against his hand. "Do you spend Cabinet meetings wondering how it would feel for me to take you over the table? Or longer? Since you were elected to Parliament? Since we met at Oxford?"

"Some- while," Michael confessed, gasping a little in time with David's thrusts. "Yes to the Ca- Cabinet meetings. No to Oxford. You- had terrible hair."

"I did not!" David said, digging his fingers in deeper to make his point. Michael keened.

"You did," he insisted, when he'd adjusted to the pressure. "It was- dire. Fluffy. Truly disastrous."

For that he got a third finger. He grunted and squirmed a little, and David had to tighten his grip on his nape to keep him still.

"And how do you think I should deal with this inattention in Cabinet?" he asked. "I can't have my ministers fantasizing about me when they're supposed to be listening to each other's reports."

"I only do it- when Eric is talking. Or Caroline." Michael said. "But- if you want to fix it- you could always try put- ah! -try putting me over the table and fucking me. The reality might banish- the fantasy."

Eric and Caroline were joining Sam on the 'Names Not to Mention During Illicit Sex' list- Eric was Eric, and while Caroline was a perfectly lovely woman she'd been banished from the realm of erotic fantasy forever for reminding David vaguely of his mother-in-law. Hearing Michael say 'fuck' was strangely arousing, though. He never did normally; 'shit' was the outer limit of his coarse language, and even that was confined to self-injury or major political disasters. In a world where everyone else swore like sailors, his gentility stood out. On Michael's lips 'fuck' carried the same dirty thrill it had when David was nine.

He had no intention of mentioning this to Michael, for fear of getting a five minute lecture on the value of confining the word to its appropriate verbal context and the hazards of degrading profanity through overuse. It was still hot, though.

"If we get bored over the summer recess," David suggested, twisting his fingers inside Michael and feeling the slick press of his inner walls. Michael whimpered and pushed back against his hand.

"Now, David. Please."

"It might be a little disruptive to adjourn to the Cabinet Room at this point," he said.

" _David!_ " Michael whined.

"All right, all right." Michael really had no patience or dignity at all when he wanted something, but even David was prepared to admit that hadn't been one of his better jokes. He popped his fingers out of Michael, realized he couldn't reach into his pocket with that hand, and let him go for a moment while he got out the hand cream.

"Go easy on the lubricant. We don't want to drip it on your trousers."

"I can manage, thank you," David said, but he slicked his cock less liberally than he might have otherwise. He tossed the hand cream on one of the chairs and turned back to Michael. Parting Michael's welted cheeks again with his left hand, he took hold of his cock with his right and guided himself in, pushing past the puckered ring of the sphincter with a sharp upward thrust. He moved his clean hand up to Michael's shoulder to steady them and thrust again, burying himself in moist heat.

God, that was tight. For a moment David was lost in the hot, crimson bliss of it, but as he came back to himself he realized Michael was frozen against the wall, transfixed, his body absolutely rigid. The tense knotting of his spine was visible even through his shirt. He was trembling slightly, and every tiny thrust of David's drew a keening moan from him.

David felt a stab of guilt. Had they been too hasty? Michael had claimed to be ready, but those weren't moans of pleasure. Dammit. He'd _thought_ they could use a bit more lube, but Michael had been in such a hurry and it been so long since David had done this.

"Do you want me to pull out?" he asked, although the thought of losing that hot pressure around his cock was almost unbearable.

Michael shook his head and bucked backward, pushing him in deeper. "Stop faffing about and fuck me properly," he said, a pained hitch in his voice.

"It's obviously hurting you-"

"Yes, and it's going to keep on hurting me until you find my prostate. It's like the deficit; the longer you wait to take decisive action, the worse it will get. The remedy is painful, but we just have to grit our teeth and bear it," he said, sounding more peevish now than pained. While David added the economy to his growing list of topics never to discuss while having sex with his Cabinet ministers, Michael groped behind him for David's hands and set them firmly on his hips. He lifted his own to brace himself against the wall. "Go on."

"You know you don't have to do this," David said, more for his own reassurance than Michael's.

"I want this as much as you do. Will you please stop being so solicitous? I promise you I am not going to break, and it's somewhat absurd coming from a man who not five minutes ago was beating me with a cane."

"Fair point," David conceded. He didn't think he could hold back for much longer anyway. And at least a good hard fuck would stop Michael going on about the damned deficit. He took hold of Michael's hips and pushed his way in, seating himself in two solid strokes, the front of his thighs slamming against Michael's welted arse. The first thrust drew a whimper from Michael, the second a choked off cry, but there was no force behind his instinctive struggle to pull away from the intrusion and David easily held him in place.

"Better?" he growled into Michael's ear. Michael just moaned. David honestly couldn't tell if it was arousal or discomfort, although that was progress from a minute ago. At least it wasn't an economics metaphor. It occurred to David that keeping Michael nonverbal would probably improve the sex immensely, unless of course he could be persuaded to say 'fuck' some more. He pulled halfway out and drove forcefully in again, and got another ambiguous moan for his pains. Michael was still tense, but he was loosing up a little around David's cock now. It was probably safe to stop worrying about him. With a mental shrug, David set his concerns aside and got down to business.

Michael seemed to like it a bit rough. When David slammed into him he just braced himself and took it, moaning at the deeper strokes, but as soon as David eased up he began pushing back against him hungrily and urging him on, far more careless of his bruises than David was. He mewled in pain whenever David's thighs touched his backside, but it didn't seem to matter much. He'd whimper and flinch at the contact every time, but the next shallow stroke would have him pushing backward again, trying to take David deeper.

David had to be missing his prostrate more often then not; this just wasn't a great angle for it, especially because David was trying to thrust up rather than forward so he didn't crash full force into the welts. That didn't seem to matter much either. When he reached around to grasp Michael's cock he found it was rock hard already, the tip slick with pre-come. He thumbed the slit, and Michael made an embarrassingly high-pitched squeak and thrust against his hand.

"Like that, do you?"

"Fuck, David, please, please-" he whimpered, his hips jerking helplessly. A little less well-argued than his usual, but David got the point. He gave another hard thrust, drawing a yelp from Michael as he hit the welts, and his friend squirmed, desperately rubbing himself against David's loose grip. Well, now. _That_ was interesting. No wonder Michael was so careless of his bruises. It shouldn't have come as a huge surprise, not when Michael had got off on the caning, but David had felt so guilty about hurting him when he’d entered him that he'd forgotten there was a chance Michael might _like_ it.

He reached down experimentally and dug his fingers into the dark weal along the crease of Michael's thighs, which until now had been protected by the curve of his buttocks. Michael cried out and arched his spine, driving himself deeper onto David and almost bashing him in the nose with the back of his skull. His dick twitched in David's hand, and then he was tightening deliciously around David's cock and coming in messy spurts all over the wall.

"I'm starting to have serious doubts about the effectiveness of caning you," David said.

Michael laughed, his head flopping bonelessly forward to rest on his forearm. "You want to make the lesson memorable, don't you?"

David laughed too, and set to work making it as memorable as possible. Michael might have all the restraint of a teenager, but David still had some way to go, and now that he was certain his friend was enjoying himself he could ride him without mercy. Michael was completely pliant beneath his hands, whimpering in time with his brutal thrusts but offering no resistance at all. He wasn't really even bracing himself any more, just letting David hold onto his hips and pound into him.

"This what you needed?" David asked, on the cusp of his own release, "Someone- someone to- put you in your place? Someone to thrash you? Claim you? Fuck you until you- ungh- until you can't stand up?"

"Not _someone_ ," Michael corrected, with a trace of his usual snippiness despite the circumstances, " _you_ ," and then David was coming, red and white flaring across his vision, spending himself inside Michael in a few short bursts. When he could focus again he found that Michael was giving him a tired smirk over his shoulder.

"Better than the traditional handshake?"

"Just- a bit," David conceded, panting. He braced himself against the wall for a moment, catching his breath, and then pulled out. Michael sagged as if David had pulled out his spine at the the same time and started sliding down the wall, and David had to make a quick grab for his collar and yank him upright again to prevent him from collapsing.

"Oh no you don't. You've already made a complete mess of the wall; you're not getting my carpet all sticky. You can rest after we've cleaned up. I don't expect you want carpet fluff sticking to your balls anyway."

David dragged him over to the desk by his collar and Michael leaned on it gratefully, too knackered to mind returning to the scene of his trauma. David rummaged through the drawers for some tissues. It was at this point he came to the terrible realization that his tissues were in his other office, and in fact there was nothing in here they could use to clean themselves up at all- no tissues, no random bits of cloth, no spare articles of clothing unless someone sacrificed his pants and spent the rest of the day going commando.

David had prepared for an emergency, but not this one. But that was a thought- the first aid kit might have some kind of sanitary wipe. He pulled it from the drawer and rooted through it while Michael looked on with a sort of stoned interest. There were indeed sanitary wipes, and a big roll of gauze which might prove useful, and-

Michael pointed. "Look, David, you _did_ have condoms."

David picked one up and dropped it in disgust. "This is _not_ a first aid supply! What were Labour _doing_ all these years?"

"We're stealing medical supplies to clean ejaculate off your wall."

"Yes, but we're deliberately misusing them. We haven't institutionalized our low standards by putting something in the kit, have we?"

Michael giggled. To shut him up and to prevent him from saying 'ejaculate' again- quite possibly the least sexy word in the English language- David cut a length of gauze for him.

"Clean yourself off and put your trousers back on," he said, shoving the gauze and a wipe packet across the desk. He got himself cleaned up and back inside his pants and went over to the wall to see what could be done about Michael's handiwork. The sanitary wipe wiped quite successfully, although the wall still seemed a little sticky when he was done. Maybe it just needed time to dry. Or he could tell the cleaners Arthur had spilled juice on it.

He dropped the used wipes in the bin and sank down into the leather chair where he'd beaten the cushion, feeling utterly drained. Michael, now in trousers but still missing his shoes, padded over to him and threw himself down onto the carpet at David's feet, his chin resting on his folded hands.

'Sure you don't want a chair?" David asked, waving a limp hand at the other one.

Michael winced. "Quite sure, thank you."

"I'd get stiff lying like that."

"Right now a few stiff muscles are a less pressing concern than the distinct possibility I may never be able to sit down again. I don't know how I'm going to manage these apologies tonight, I really don't. I can stand for the ‘22, but I’ll have to sit down for the other one. Do you think it would be conspicuous if I brought a cushion to the House?"

"There's one in the cupboard you can have," David offered generously. "I should warn you, it tends to misbehave."

His brain caught up with the rest of Michael's statement, and he eyed his errant Secretary of State warily. "We're... not going to have any more trouble about the apologies, are we?" He really didn't think he had the energy for another argument right now.

Michael glanced up at David, his eyes wide with alarm, and his hand crept back reflexively to shield his bottom. "No, sir!"

"Oh, good. I was afraid I was sending mixed signals with the whole... shagging... thing."

"No, sir. I may be your friend, but I'm also your Cabinet minister, and when my performance isn't up to standard you'll express your displeasure in the most _cutting_ terms. No more mistakes unless I want more of the same, and I'd do well to mind my manners. Don't worry, sir, the message was received loud and clear, and I'm sure the backbenchers will hear it too."

There was something in Michael's tone that wasn't quite right, a hint of satisfaction. He threatened himself with just a little too much relish, just a few too many headmasterly clichés. He wasn't paraphrasing David. He was feeding him lines.

"You wanted me to do this," David realized, and couldn't understand how it had taken half an hour for something so obvious to dawn on him. He must have been more rattled by the caning than he'd thought. That and the fact that Michael had fought with him for fifteen fucking minutes before he'd finally taken his punishment.

Michael smirked at him. "I'm a Tory; we like strong decisive leadership. And I can _add_ , you know. It was you or the 1922 Committee, and we all know what they did to poor George."

The strategic value of fucking his brains out became apparent. Ten minutes ago David would have exploded at this smug admission and hauled Michael back across his desk for a second round. In his post-coital lassitude it was impossible to summon the necessary rage; the best he could manage was an irritated glare.

"Then _why the hell_ did you waste fifteen minutes of my time by refusing to cooperate?"

Michael's forehead wrinkled thoughtfully. "A test of your resolve. Caning me is easy; I'm your friend, you feel comfortable with me and you've probably wanted to give me a good thrashing for years." He arched an eyebrow at David's incredulous expression. "Oh for God's sake, David. _Everyone_ does. Few have the privilege of getting a chance to actually _do_ it, these days, but I do recognize that the ambition is fairly universal."

"I didn't realize you knew. Have you tried being less irritating?"

"For about three weeks, when I was twelve. After the second black eye I came to the conclusion that being nice to people wasn't enough to make them like me, so I might as well enjoy myself. Worthwhile people like me anyway-" he gestured magnanimously to David, who inclined his head in acknowledgment- "and idiots are dull conversationalists, so I doubt I'm missing much by failing to cultivate their company."

"To return to the point," David said, "why exactly did we have a fifteen minute argument about something we both agreed was the right course of action? I hope for your sake you're not about to tell me it was for your amusement."

"Like I said, it was for your benefit, not mine. Making up your mind to cane me is easy. It will be much harder if you have to cane Theresa or IDS. I wanted to give you the most challenging practice round I could." He looked down and picked at the carpet. "And nerves, I think. There's a certain comforting familiarity in arguing with you."

David thumped his head back against the the chair and groaned in exasperation. "You are a manipulative little _wanker_ , and you're damned lucky you're such a good lay."

"Yes, Prime Minister." Humphrey Appleby had never said it so smugly.

"And none of your cheek, or I _will_ cane you again," David said, scowling at him with as much severity as he could muster.

Michael sniggered. "Yes, Prime Minister."

"It's not funny! I genuinely thought I'd forced you. I was worried that you'd be furious and I'd have to wring some extra education funding out of George before you'd forgive me, and the whole time you were having me on!"

"It was for your own good. And you did cane me quite hard, in case you've forgotten, so I'm afraid I don't feel terribly sympathetic to your mental anguish at the moment. Try me again when I can sit down."

David had to concede that point. "All right, I'm not angry. But I've had my 'practice round,' so I don't want a word of argument next time."

"There won't be a next time," Michael assured him with surprising fervor. "I've learned my lesson; you'll never have cause to cane me again."

"You didn't seem to mind the pain a few minutes ago," David said, smiling a little at the memory.

Michael shook his head. "The sex was grand. The caning was awful. I wouldn't mind you giving me a smack now and then, but this was well above my limit. You know how it feels to slam your finger in the car door?"

"Yeah."

"Imagine that feeling eleven times over across your entire bum, except that the door of this particular car is also on fire."

David winced. "Was it really that bad? When I tested it on my arm it just felt like a sharp sting."

But he'd know it was, really. He'd pulled the blows on his arm despite his best intentions, and Michael had made some very unhappy noises. Still, he didn't regret the eleven strokes. Six might be the traditional schoolboy's punishment, but Michael was an adult, and he had a lot to answer for. He'd be sore for a few days, but no blood had been drawn, and emotionally he seemed fine. He didn't resent the reprimand and he might even do as he was told, at least for a little while. It had been the right thing to do.

Michael proved the lack of ill-feeling by grinning and announcing, "I _love_ you."

This was clearly intended to be mocking, but David didn't get the joke.

"I'm touched."

"You're so _responsible_. I'm sure Michael Howard never tested it on himself before he whipped someone."

"Michael Howard is old enough he probably got it at school. I wasn't going to use a cane on you without knowing what it felt like. All I got at school was a bloody clothes brush, and that was bad enough."

Michael perked up, in full-on investigative journalist mode. "What for?"

"Oh, you know," David said, shrugging. "Kid things. They were pretty strict. I stole some strawberries from the headmaster's wife's garden once."

Michael tutted. "You little ASBO child."

"I know. Hitting a little kid with a wooden board for eating some fruit; it was completely mad. Okay, your turn. Were you a perfect angel at school or were you born incorrigible?"

"I _might_ have got the belt a few times," Michael confessed.

"Cheek, insubordination and general insufferability, with an option on talking in class?"

He grinned. "How well you know me."

"It doesn't seem to have done much good."

"Well, it has had years to wear off," Michael pointed out. "Although I don't think it was ever very effective. The teachers I never cheeked were the ones I loved too well to disappoint, not the ones I feared might belt me."

"Speaking of straps." David got up and went to the desk, and pulled the strap out of the lower drawer. It still felt strange to handle it, illicit somehow, but it seemed absurd to get squeamish over a piece of leather when he'd just taken a cane to the Secretary for Education.

"Look what George found," he said, bringing it over and sitting down again. He handed it to Michael, whose eyebrows climbed halfway to his hairline.

"This isn't ours," he said experimentally, waiting for David to refute him.

"Theirs. It was in the bottom drawer of my desk when I got here."

"It's been used. You can see by the crazing in the leather-"

"I know."

"Gordon Brown is Scottish; I suppose it makes sense for him to have a tawse," Michael mused, striking the leather tails gently across his hand. "So when Peter Mandelson said he'd taken his medicine like a man..."

Christ, David hadn't even thought of that. They exchanged a wide-eyed glance and cracked up.

"You just caned me. Why is the idea so utterly bizarre when it's _them_?" Michael asked, between fits of giggling.

"I don't know! It's like your parents having sex, it's just _wrong_ somehow. They're Labour, they're supposed to be egalitarian, aren't they? And it's _Gordon Brown_."

They both looked at the strap, then back at each other, and dissolved into helpless laughter again. God, they were both high as kites on adrenaline. If corporal punishment always led to this kind of aftermath, David was seriously questioning its efficacy as an office management technique. That could explain a lot about the Brown Government, come to think of it. This thought, and his abortive attempts to communicate it to Michael, sent them both into more gales of laughter.

"Do you suppose the Liberal Democrats do it too?" Michael asked, when they had finally regained their breath.

They both shook their heads simultaneously.

"No, no way," David said. It wasn't possible. There was still a trace of working class social conservatism underneath New Labour's shiny bourgeois veneer, just enough that the notion of Brown giving stray ministers a few licks with a strap wasn't utterly inconceivable. Disconcerting and appalling, but not inconceivable. But the Liberal Democrats were yuppie to the core. They were just too modern and liberal and smug; he couldn't see Nick rebuking his flock with anything worse than a lecture about how they'd _disappointed_ him.

"Are you going to cane Nick, then? If he deserves it?" Michael asked, a sly gleam in his eye.

"I haven't quite decided," David admitted. Fantasized about extensively, yes. Taken a decision, no. "I'm sure he didn't expect this when he signed the coalition agreement, but It's not really fair on you lot if I let him off. I wouldn't want to foster resentment against our coalition partners by having one law for Tories and another law for them."

"Yes, that would be terrible. And dreadfully poor leadership on your part," Michael said solemnly.

"You just want me to thrash him," David accused.

Perhaps Michael had some of the same fantasies. Or he was motivated by jealousy, that was a distinct possibility. He and George and David had been the Three Musketeers back in their Opposition days, but with the advent of the coalition Michael had inevitably been cut out to make room for Nick and Danny. He'd been a very good sport about it, and David still included him in his PMQs prep sessions, less out of pity than because he was a damn good debater and David needed him. But he had to feel a bit excluded.

No such base emotions revealed themselves in the wide-eyed expression of innocence that spread across Michael's face.

"But from the best of possible motives!" he insisted.

"Which are?"

Michael smirked, going from angel to demon in an instant. "Nick Clegg is a smug, self-righteous little git and he wants taking down a peg."

David aimed a light swat at his head, and Michael rolled backward onto his side to get out of range, momentarily forgetting his welts. As they came into contact with the floor his face contorted in pain, and he hissed through his teeth.

" _Ow_. Shit."

"Serves you right. I am not going to beat my deputy prime minister just because you think he's smug."

"He _is_ smug," said Michael, rolling back onto his stomach.

"He's a Liberal Democrat, he can't help himself. Anyway, I thought you liked him."

"I do like him. But he needs to know you're in charge, and this makes the point very effectively."

"And naturally your sole motive for making this suggestion is the smooth operation of my Government."

"What else could it be?" Michael asked. David hesitated a moment, but they really ought to have this out at some point, and now seemed as good a time as any, with booth of them cheerfully well shagged and Michael a little subdued from his punishment.

"You have been shunted aside somewhat since we formed the coalition," he said gently.

"You've found me out, David. The errors in the BSF list were really just a cry for attention."

David laughed and Michael smiled, pleased to have pleased him. But it had been a serious point and David could tell he was considering it seriously. He bent his head and started picking at the carpet again, his brow furrowed in concentration. After a moment he shook his head minutely.

"I meant what I said during the Cabinet negotiations. I want this Government to succeed. If that means that I have to get bumped so that one of them can take my place, then so be it." He looked up, unusually earnest. "But if he has my place, then I need to know he's going to do my job. Someone needs to watch your back, and for all his virtues George has the social awareness of a mushroom. We have to be able to trust Nick. If he lets you thrash him, we'll know we can."

"Interesting logic. A tad Orwellian, I must say."

"No. Why do we use corporal punishment? It's not really because it's an effective deterrent. Oh, it hurts like hell, and I'm certainly going to check over anything I present to the House in the future. But I would have done that anyway. I look a complete fool in front of the entire country, and the last thing I want to do is open us up to criticisms that we're not taking the cuts seriously. You didn't need to cane me to make sure I'll never repeat this mistake. Anyone stupid or careless enough to commit an indiscretion or an error that will jeopardize their career isn't thinking of the risk or the consequences at the time, and adding corporal punishment into the mix doesn't change that.

"We do it because by submitting to a beating the offender reaffirms his commitment to the Party or to you. By damaging the Government or the Party with his actions, he's put that commitment into question, and he must pay back that debt somehow to prove his loyalty. That's why I'm glad you thrashed me; it proves to all the curmudgeons on the 1922 Committee that you have the strength to hold the line. It's a gesture of fealty. If Nick lets you whip him, we'll know he's committed to the coalition, committed enough that we can rely on him. And he'll know that _he_ trusts _you_."

"You've thought a lot about this," said David, who hadn't, and couldn't come up with an intelligent rebuttal.

"After they beat George I couldn't stop thinking about it. Why do we do it, why do we permit it? We're senior politicians; let's face it, we're some of the most egotistical, arrogant people in the country. Why would we allow someone to beat us, when in any other line of work an employer who brutalized his employees in such a manner would land straight behind bars? It had to be about something more than enforcing party discipline."

"Like vaguely homoerotic bonding rituals. Or graphically homoerotic bonding rituals, in certain cases."

Michael said nothing, just smiled up at him, fond and a little bit proprietorial. David couldn't help but wonder how much of what had happened between them had been desire or atonement, and how much had been Michael trying to stake a claim to a part of him Nick Clegg couldn't have. Or... hadn't yet had. God only knew what would happen if Nick reacted to corporal punishment in the same way Michael did.

But if it was reassurance his friend was after, David couldn't begrudge it to him.

Nick had saved him from the humiliating impotence of a minority government or another five years in opposition. It was thanks to Nick that they were finally in a position to do some good, and politically, Nick was already proving himself an invaluable asset, an irrefutable excuse to the reactionary whack-jobs on David's backbenches and a convenient distraction to his critics in the leftist media. And despite their differences, they just plain _liked_ one another. Nick had been faced with what to him must have seemed a pretty grisly choice, and he'd chosen David. That meant a lot.

But Michael had chosen him freely. Even George couldn't claim that. George followed him because George had been born a Tory and he would die a Tory, and David was the best thing the Tories had going. Whereas Michael might just as easily have become a Labourite or even a Liberal Democrat; there had been no set course for him. He followed David not out of necessity or by default but because out of all the leaders and all the parties it was David's politics he believed in. David knew the value of that kind of loyalty. He'd had no choice but to push Michael aside to make a place for Nick, but he wouldn't forget who his true friends were.

He stood and offered Michael a hand up. "You'll need to ring Bercow soon if you want to get on tonight's Order Paper. You'd better head off."

"If I can _walk_ ," Michael grumbled, but he took David's hand. He didn't let it go again, so they just stood there for a moment, holding hands companionably. There was a weird undercurrent to it, a charge that wasn't quite erotic but wasn't entirely platonic either, like they were teenage sweethearts and this was the closest they'd come to sex.

"You're going to be a splendid Prime Minister, David," Michael said finally, giving his hand a little squeeze and offering him a sunny smile. "Perhaps even better than Mr. Blair."

High praise indeed. David pulled him close for a moment and planted a chaste kiss on his forehead.

"I've been more fortunate in my friends."


End file.
